


i've lived and died a hundred times

by gaykids



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ancient History, F/F, M/M, Romantic Soulmates, disclaimer: does include a ww2 scenario, no pennywise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 02:50:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12949695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaykids/pseuds/gaykids
Summary: In a rare moment of genuinity, Eddie whispers, “I feel like I’ve known you forever.”Eddie and Richie's souls are connected, and they've met millions of times throughout history.(or, some souls are just meant to meet, one way or another)





	i've lived and died a hundred times

**Author's Note:**

> basically this fic is just a few times eddie and richie's souls have met throughout time (very unoriginal idea but sue me)
> 
> after reading literally every reddie soulmate au on this website, not even an exaggeration, i've decided to inject my own into the mix
> 
> alternatively titled, 'ao3 user bughead doesnt know anything about history, like, at all'
> 
> or alternate alternative title; 'dont call me eds, but like, throughout multiple lifetimes'
> 
> however, actual title from sabrina claudio's song _about time_ (which i havent even listened to i just read the lyrics do i look like i give a fuck)
> 
> this fic also doesnt include pennywise bc idk her. allusions to ben, stan and beverly's existences if u squint

“I feel like a part of my soul has loved you since the beginning of everything.  
Maybe we’re from the same star.”  
― **Emery Allen**

  
  


**_Derry, USA; 1992_ **

 

Richie Tozier adjusts his spectacles as the wind rasps against his wet hair like a blow dryer from the Heavens. Next to him, Eddie Kaspbrak watches. The slightly murky water surrounds them as they float together, bobbing like red and white buoys.

 

They’re alone and they love it.

 

“I wish you took your glasses off.” Eddie says. He pushes his arms out and back in again, keeping afloat with what looks like ease. In reality, swimming had never and will never be a specialty of the boy.

 

Richie realises this, and in the faintest of touches he grabs the smaller boy’s hand. His spectacles are all that allow him to see Eddie, of course he wouldn’t leave them ashore. “I forgot to take them off and I don't want to get out.”

 

It’s a lie, but Richie would rather keep the truth to himself. They watch each other for a few moments. Eddie’s chocolate eyes; his straight teeth; his button nose; his slowly curling hair. Richie’s squinting brown eyes; his full lips; his narrow nose; his mess of black curls.

 

In a rare moment of genuinity, Eddie whispers, “I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

  
  


**_Corinth, Greece; 499 BC_ **

 

Eukleides was just about the only good textiler in his family, not that he was much good at all. He was born into a family with a warrior for a father, meaning it was up to him to calm his mother’s weeping heart and take care of his younger sisters, Ligeia and Pherenike.

 

As the current breadwinner of the family, it was his duty to provide. He tried his absolute best to make the most creative and lavish textiles he could, but his family were still poor and starving. Eukleides, or as his loved ones called him, Eides, felt as if he were failing his family.

 

He prayed to Aphrodite, the patron of Corinth, nightly, begging for his textiles to sell. Part of him feared he was asking too much of the Goddess, being selfish instead of good, but all he wanted was for his family to survive.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said to his younger sister Ligeia, “I am trying.”

 

“We need to eat.” Ligeia replied without sympathy, and it was true. They all needed food.

 

The next day, Eides took his latest piece to the market to sell, along with a few older ones, hopefully to be sold for a high enough price that he could buy food for the next few weeks. He wondered if his father was doing well as he set up shop. He hadn’t heard from him in almost… Eides couldn’t remember anymore. He was much too young.

 

He set himself up. A few women walked by and felt his fabric, complimented him on it and walked away. Eides felt suddenly upset, wondering if he hadn’t done well enough again. It had taken weeks to make, weeks that had been apparently wasted.

 

“Excuse me.” A voice before him said. Eides looked up at the man. He had a large amount of curly hair, a band between the strands, and he was wearing a worn out _chiton_ that ended above his knees. His skin was shiny, slick, with what could only be presumed as sweat.

 

Eides wondered the last time the man had cleaned himself, until he realised he, himself, didn’t look much different.

 

“Greetings.” Eides said, “Are you wishing to buy?”

 

The man nodded his head, “The red one. How much would it cost?”

 

Eides turned to the one he was speaking of and opened his mouth, and then closed it. That cloth was his most expensive, intended for those with heavy pockets and light minds. This man could not possibly afford it.

 

“It is very expensive.” He told the man, simply.

 

“I have a lot of coins. What is your name?” The man asked. Eides refused to believe this, but he did not want to lose a customer.

 

“I am Eukleides.” He told him, not bothering to mention the shortened version his family called him. This man was nothing to Eides, why would he need to know?

 

“Hello, Euk.” The man said.

 

“Euk? Please, don’t call me that.” Eides replied, impatiently. “Do you really wish to buy my product?”

 

The man smiled and looked down, the curls on his head suddenly looking like a halo. Eides imagined, for a moment, a laurel wreath tucked into his hair, the leaves painted gold like a God. He almost looked like one of the marble statues the great artists carved, and the thought gave colour to Eides’ cheeks.

 

“Don’t you wish to know my name?” The man asked, looking back up at Eides.

 

He had brown eyes, the kind dark enough to be mistaken for the colour of ink. Eides knew his were the same, if not just slightly lighter.

 

“What is your name?” Eides asked, wanting to make the sale. He wasn’t exactly the busiest today, but perhaps some plausible customers had neglected him as they noticed him preoccupied. The stupid man and his stupid eyes and his stupid hair had wasted too much of Eides’ time.

 

“I do not want to tell you.” He said, smiling. Eides stared at him blankly for a moment.

 

“What?” Eides said.

 

“I’ll take the red one.” The man said, again, and dug his hand into one of the pockets of his shortened _chiton_. Eides turned around to retrieve his item, and when he faced the man again, there was a mountain of silver coins on his tabletop.

 

“This is not _that_ expensive.” Eides said, in shock mostly, handing over the red textile.

 

“Please, I don’t need the money.” The man said, waving him off.

 

“Then take more! You could buy all of my stock with this money.” Eides rushed out in disbelief. The man before him, nothing more than a stranger, had given him enough money to feed his family for many long nights. He could probably use this money to buy his sisters jewelry and still have much left over.

 

“I only want the red one.” The man said with a smile.

 

“No, what is your name?” Eides asked, because, unlike before, he really wanted to know. He felt suddenly indebted to this stranger, the man who had fed his family. Eides wanted to cry out of joy.

 

“It is mine to know.” He said, and walked away.

 

Eides was left dumbstruck, standing with a gaping mouth. He packed all the coins into a little coin sack and packed up his stock, knowing that he would not make much more money over the course of the day. Then, he ventured home, the kind stranger on his mind.

 

-

 

The man came regularly to give Eides large amounts of money for his mediocre stock. He thought at first it was pity that drove the man to be so kind, but the man did not know Eides, he did not know his family. What could he pity if he knew nothing at all?

 

They had come up with a game. The man would buy Eides’ most expensive item, give him a sack of coins, and then Eides would pack up the rest of his stock with the man still there, while Eides tried to guess his name.

 

“Diokles?” Eides asked.

 

“No.” The man smiled, “Very good guess though.”

 

“So I’m close?” Eides asked excitedly, almost dropping whatever he was holding.

 

“No.”

 

Eides sighed, wringing his mind for random names of people he had met and encountered. Something told him this man was not like anyone he had met or encountered before, though, he thought as he met his soft gaze. “How about… Tereus?”

 

“Do I look like the son of Ares to you, Kleid?” He laughed.

 

“I have never met Ares. How should I know what his son would look like?” Eides smiled, “And don’t call me Kleid.”

 

“Won’t happen again, Des.” The man laughed.

 

“Or that!”

 

It was strange. Eides felt such a strong connection to the man, yet he had no idea what to even call him in his mind. When he thought about the man, it was less of a word and more of an emotion that Eides associated him with.

 

-

 

After much time of knowing each other, Eides had begun expecting the man to come. Never had they ventured away from Eides’ textiles, or into any other area of Corinth. Eides didn’t even know where the man lived.

 

But one day, the man showed up a little more dishevelled than usual, more red-faced.

 

“We should go somewhere else.” He said, catching his breath. Eides looked down to the man’s feet, his sandals were tattered and worn out. Vaguely, Eides wondered how often he walked.

 

“Where?” Eides asked.

 

“The river.” Was all the man said, so Eides packed up his little supplies and walked with him to the river, side by side. It was a philosophical silence, one in which Eides reflected his relationship with the man.

 

When they reached the bank of the river, the man sat down. “Do you want to know my name?”

 

Eides sat beside him, closer than than the man probably expected judging by his sharp intake of breath. “Yes.”

 

The man looked up, his face unbelievably close to Eides’ own. His eyes flickered down to Eides’ mouth and back up again, and Eides hoped for a moment that the man would lean in, close enough for their lips to touch. Inside, he knew it wouldn’t happen. Eides was too old to be the man’s _eromenos_.

 

Still, the man looked tempted, if even just for a moment.

 

“My name is Acrisius.” He said.

 

“Acrisius…” Eides mumbled, wondering why he had to act so coy. The name itself was not a statement. “Can I call you Risi?”

 

Risi smiled, brightly and softly all at once, and all of a sudden Eides couldn’t help it anymore. He surged forward and captured Risi’s chapped lips with his own in a whirlwind kiss. He felt Risi’s mouth move against his own for a moment of complete and total happiness before Risi pulled away.

 

Eides was scared to see Risi’s face. Would he be disgusted? The idea of two adult men was shameful, this was a fact Eides knew. He, himself, was meant to be looking for women to wed, he just hadn’t had to opportunity to search. He no longer wanted a wife, though, instead he wished for more.

 

He wished he wasn’t a man and that, more than anything, he was still a boy; that Risi could be his _erastes_ and he could be Risi’s _eromenos_ ; that they could kiss again. Or maybe that he was a woman, so that him and Risi could wed, and love.

 

When he looked up, Risi was smiling, still, softer than before if it were possible. There was a look in his inked eyes that Eides wanted to see forever, and in that moment he felt entirely at peace.

 

“When I first met you,” Eides said, tucking an extra long strand of his brown hair behind his ear, “I thought you looked like a God.”

 

“Which one?” Risi asked.

 

“None of them could ever compare to you.”

 

They walked back to town and went their separate ways, Eides with a newfound spring in his step. At home, he ate with his family, who all engaged in polite conversation. Ligeia and Pherenike were no longer upset at Eides, as it was him who graced the table with donkey meat and the ingredients for the bread their mother baked. He wanted to tell them all about Risi, who gifted him his coins and made him feel alive.

 

The next time he opened up his stall, Risi never came, and Eides spent the rest of his short life wondering what happened to the man with the inky eyes.

  
  


**_Seine, France; 845 AD_ **

 

The great ship rocked on the sea as the tide drew breath and hummed deeply. The water was gentle, in a way, and if Tryggvi had not held eye contact with hundreds of sea storms, he might have fallen for its calm facade. He knew, however, the sea could be malicious.

 

“Ryg.” His friend, Bendik, shouted over the loud winds. Bendik was a round fella, but it was in his blood. He just couldn’t resist a feast, not that any of them could after years of the sea.

 

Ryg, though, loved the sea. “Yes, Ben?”

 

“We’re reaching land.” Ben told him.

 

Reginherus was the viking’s chief, and he was leading one hundred and twenty viking ships. He was a strong and powerful man, one that Ryg admired greatly. Reginherus planned to take French land as revenge against King Charles the Bald, who had given him land in Frisia and stolen it back.

 

Ryg loved the sea, but he loved the land too. He loved taking land from the privileged locals, watching them stare at his long, black braids as if they’d never seen a man with such long hair wield a weapon.

 

The day was cold and the air felt dewey. Ryg’s lungs felt wet when he breathed in, like he was floating on the sea water without a boat, just the furs on his back to keep him buoyant. He could taste the upcoming pillage at the back of his throat. It was metallic.

 

-

 

They arrived at Paris many days later, few men had died on the first siege but Ryg was still alive, and so was his round friend Ben. Ryg, honestly, was not the best warrior. He tended to stand back and withdraw himself often, but he still killed cracked skulls and he still killed men. Just not quite as many as everybody else.

 

He was in someone’s home when he heard a creak. In the floor, or the walls, or the furniture, Ryg could not pinpoint, until he saw _him_.

 

 _He_ looked young, Ryg thought, until he realised it was just his body that was small; entirely shorter than Ryg’s self. He was hiding in a closet with his knees to his chest, and when Ryg opened the door he began whimpering out French that Ryg couldn’t understand.

 

“Who are you?” Ryg asked, but the boy was crying. A closer look and Ryg concluded they must’ve been around the same age. Vikings started young, so they would be their strongest when older. One long stare at the crying, whimpering mess of a male and Ryg realised how weak the French were.

 

“ _Non!_ ” The boy, who Ryg couldn’t even think of as a man in his mind, choked out. “ _Non, non, non!_ ”

 

Then, it was as if he couldn’t speak anymore, because whenever he opened his mouth to speak the words came out fitfully, swallowed by wet sobbing noises. He was like a child. Ryg realised he must have thought Ryg was going to kill him.

 

“ _Non._ ” said Ryg, the only French he knew from the boy.

 

The boy, still crying, looked up from his knees with small sniffles punctuating every third second. “ _Non?_ ”

 

“ _Non._ ”

 

The tears were almost silent now, and he began to stand. Ryg studied his face, the smooth lines and the sharp lines, the thick brows surrounding the boy’s dark brown eyes, the short hair, clearly cut recently. Ryg’s own hair was outrageously long and curly when unbraided.

 

Ryg pointed to himself, “Tryggvi.”

 

The boy stared at him and said something in French, but Ryg couldn’t understand.

 

“ _Non_.” He replied, poking himself in the chest, “Tryggvi.”

 

“ _Tryggvi._ ” The boy said, and then pointed at Ryg. His pronunciation was poor, it came out sounding something more like Riggie than anything else, but Ryg nodded anyway, watching the boy’s fearful face.

 

Ryg didn’t really understand why the boy still looked scared. He was being _kind_.

 

The boy pointed to himself, “ _Édouard_.”

 

“Ed...wa…” Ryg stared at Édouard confusedly.

 

“ _Éd.”_ He said, pointing to himself.

 

Ryg nodded and pointed to himself too, “Ryg.”

 

-

 

That night, a plague broke out throughout the Viking camp. Hundreds of Ryg’s brothers were affected, and Ryg himself was feeling the effects.

 

As each second passed, Ryg’s stomach felt tighter and tighter. He swallowed many times, his throat constricting around nothing, but couldn’t stop the warm feeling rising in his chest. Before he knew it, a sour, orange vomit pooled out of his mouth and into the wooden bucket beside him.

 

He shivered violently, hearing a chain reaction of others vomiting as well. The smell in the room was vile, and Ryg’s innards felt bruised as he lurched up another dribble of orange liquid.

 

The Norse Gods, if they were listening, were certainly getting an earful from Ryg and the other Vikings.

 

-

 

A Christian prisoner advised the Vikings fast to cure their plague, and against all odds, it worked. The plague had disappeared as if it had never happened. The casualties were disposed of appropriately, and Ryg was free to continue on with his work.

 

Ryg came back to where he had met Éd, hoping to see him again. His house was stone and wood. Ryg could remember from a mile away, he assumed a family had lived there from its size, but it was much smaller on the inside.

 

When he arrived for a second time, he found the wooden door completely destroyed. Ryg hadn’t remembered doing that, so he rushed in at the sight of the splintered wood. A piece got stuck in his arm but he didn’t care, he just wanted to see Éd.

 

Éd was interesting. He spoke a different language, had an entire shelf full of books that Ryg could never read, and he was peculiar, an enigma. Ryg wished he could speak French, just so he could understand Éd. Then again, that would ruin the fun.

 

Ryg walked through the home, past the small kitchen area and into Éd’s bedroom, where he stood silent at what he saw.

 

Éd was on the bed, blood covering the sheets and his own clothes, with a clear gash cut in his chest, as if someone had attacked him. Ryg wandered over to Éd’s body and kneeled beside it, closing his eyes for a moment and saying a prayer to his Gods.

 

“ _Non_ .” He said aloud, “ _Èdouard_.”

 

He had no doubt in his mind it was another Viking that had done this.

  
  


**_Colchester, England; 1377_ **

 

“Aye, Dick. You feather-head!” Richard’s mother slapped him on the back of the head, “Learn yer place! We’re Rolfes for a reason!”

 

“Ma-” He fought.

 

“You can’t go bluttering everything on yer damn mind. You’ll end up with yer head under an axe!”

 

“It was just the baker!”

 

“And we’re just fleaks!” His mother pointed her skinny finger at him, “Tomorrow you’re going into town to apologise to the baker _and_ his son!”

 

-

 

Richard walked to town the next day. His mother didn’t know but he had nabbed a coin and he planned to buy himself one of whatever he wanted, although his mum’d probably notice sometime soon. He was lucky the town didn’t smell as bad as other places, he had heard London was a shithole. Still, he wouldn’t have minded visiting at least once.

 

The bakery was a small shop, owned and run by Gilbert Baker, his wife Agnes and their son Edward. It wasn’t Richard’s fault he had offended the Bakers, all he had said was a stupid joke about how easy it would be to poison someone if you ran a bakery. It wasn’t even focused _at_ them.

 

Agnes had scoffed, like she wasn’t basically a peasant too.

 

Whatever, Richard had to apologise. His mother would probably check, somehow. Personally, Richard didn’t even wish to show his face in that stupid bakery ever again. Clearly they didn’t have a sense of humour.

 

When he entered, the smell of freshly baked bread filled his nose. He always loved that smell, the warmth.

 

Neither Gilbert or Agnes Baker were to be seen, though, the only person behind the counter was young Edward, whom blinked when he saw Richard.

 

“Ed, where are yer parents?” He asked, wanting to get it over with.

 

“Don’t call me that.” Edward squinted at him.

 

“Okay, _squint-a-pipe_.” Richard squinted back, “Where are they?”

 

“Not here. What do you want?” Edward asked.

 

“To say sorry.” Richard said. He walked up to the counter and rested his arms on it, leaning towards Edward, “Me mum’s making me.”

 

“Doesn’t sound like a very genuine apology.” Clearly, Edward had gone to school, and the way he was looking at Richard made Richard’s blood boil.

 

“You have a problem, scroggling?” Richard asked, “You think yer better than me?”

 

“You live in a cruck.” Edward said, simply, like that was all that he had to say.

 

Richard thought Edward lived inside his own ass, but he didn’t say that out loud.

 

“Oi, so?”

 

“Yer family’s all cumbergrounds. If you left no one would realise.” Edward told him.

 

“You don’t know me.” Richard said, his voice somewhat becoming louder, “Or my family.”

 

“You’re all the same.” Edward said.

 

“Sorry, didn’t hear ya, Ed.”

 

“Don’t call me Ed!” Edward reached over the counter and grabbed Richard by his flimsy, tattered collar.

 

Richard breathed in, and out, and his chest inflated, and deflated, and Edward’s breath hit his freckled cheeks. For a moment, they just stared at each other in silence, Edward’s grip on Richard’s shirt loosening every second, before Edward scrunched up his face and spat, his saliva hitting Richard’s nose.

 

“Get out of my bakery.”

 

Richard, frozen, did as Edward asked. He went straight home, put the coin that he had stolen back from where he had stolen it from before his mother realised, and stared at the wall.

  
  


**_New Orleans, USA; 1787_ **

 

Two men walked down a busy street at the exact same time. One needed glasses and just didn’t know it yet, and the other was too enchanted by the cracks on the floor. Either way, without blame, the two men bumped into each other on the empty street in the dead of night.

 

They exchanged apologies and polite smiles, looking into each other’s brown eyes as they did so, before ducking their heads down and walking opposite ways.

 

Neither man saw the other again, but both remembered this small, trivial event until their deaths.

  
  


**_Oświęcim, Poland; 1943_ **

 

The Auschwitz-Birkenau camp was worse than Edison could have ever anticipated.

 

Most people knew what happened in the Nazi’s camps, but it was unknown just how many of these so-called facts were actually truth. Edison himself didn’t understand how the information even got out. If it was true, it must have been the Nazi’s worst kept secret.

 

Something he had known little of, however, were the extermination camps. And of course Edison had found his way into one, aged seventeen.

 

He had been luckier than some. When everything first began and the rumours were just circulating around the community, his parents had given him and his three other siblings up to non-Jewish families so they could be safe.

 

The host family he had been adopted into was kind. It was a Croatian family who had moved to Germany many years before Hitler had become chancellor. The Kostovs were a small family, consisting of an older woman, Jelica, her Russian husband, Filat, and their son, Stanislav, who was slightly older than Edison.

 

Jelica always seemed to be less kind to him than his host father was, but Edison couldn’t blame her; he was a hazard, to her, to her family.

 

“While you live with us,” She had said, sternly, “your name is not Edison. If anyone asks, your name is Damjan.”

 

It was only when he had become too comfortable that he had given himself away. Jelica had taken him to church with herself and Stanislav when Filat was at work as she didn’t want him left alone in the house. When they prayed, Edison had covered his head with his hands. He felt bare without his _yarmulke_. Jelica swatted his hand away, but it was too late. A family behind them had seen and called the authorities, and they took Edison that night.

 

A lot people came into Auschwitz-Birkenau and were instantly taken into another area. No one talked about it, but they all knew what was happening. Edison was lucky to be seventeen, it meant that they wouldn’t kill him immediately like they did with the old and the young.

 

As much as he never connected with his foster parents, Edison missed Stanislav an awful lot. Stan had taught him lots of basic Croatian sayings, and in return Edison had taught him some Hebrew. They both spoke German, and that was their middle ground.

 

Edison missed his parents, his older sister, Talia, and his two younger brothers, Adam and Isak, more than anything. He wondered if they were even still alive anymore, or if they had ended up in the same fate as him.

 

His parents most likely had. No one wanted to help hide adults. It was harder, more costly, more of a risk. A part of Edison resented his parents for splitting him up from his siblings, because he would probably always wonder.

 

 _Always_. It felt like he no longer had forever to think, not anymore.

 

The genocide had always been coming, like a slow motion train wreck. Propaganda and fear had increased tenfold through the years, enough to make the unaffected feel it, believe in it. Edison remembered his father, back when they lived in Leipzig, complaining of the vilification of their people. That was before the war. If only they had known, then, what was to come. Then, maybe they would have fled to South Africa like their neighbours had.

 

“One-three-two-two-nine-six.” A soldier said by the door.

 

Edison looked down at his arm; _132296_.

 

Tears sprung into his eyes as he looked up at the Nazi soldier. Edison had barely been there three days. Though, he supposed he knew it would happen eventually. That didn’t stop the panic in his gut, that stabbed into his chest like a lightning strike of anxiety.

 

He walked to the door, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, and looked at the soldier. He was tall with a narrow nose and peeks of black hair poking out from beneath a helmet. Edison, light headed, wished that the man could shoot him there.

 

In that moment, he had never wanted to be both dead and alive more. Conflicted, Edison followed the man. He wondered how they did it, how the Nazis killed them. Once, he saw a man try and run; the guards had shot him dead instantly. He wondered if he should do the same, eyeing the Nazi soldier’s gun in his arms, if being shot would be less painful than wherever he was going. He couldn’t decide, though, his mind clouded by the anxiety he felt.

 

He had never been in this part of the camp before, and when he looked to his side he saw a group of Gypsies lined up outside a building.

 

Edison didn’t want to know, and kept facing forward. The guard stopped outside a building without any significant writing on the door. Edison couldn’t recognise what the room was for.

 

He realised, at once, he was the only person there.

 

Usually, multiples of multiples of Jews would be taken at once. The wrenching feeling in Edison’s gut sprung more tears to his eyes as the guard knocked on the door. Then, he stood back and looked at Edison.

 

He had dark eyes, almost like a black watercolour painting, and they were entirely void of emotion. Edison shivered, and sobbed without remorse. He looked like a person, with pale skin and freckles, but he was a monster. And Edison knew the man must have thought that Edison, himself, was scum, subhuman.

 

The door opened and there stood another man, who nodded at the soldier, “Thank you.”

 

The solider nodded back in respect, “Anything else, Doctor Mengele?”

 

“No, thank you.” Said Doctor Mengele, and lead Edison into the room.

  
  


**_Rottnest Island, Australia; 1967_ **

 

All Edith had ever wanted was to be alone.

 

People were messy at best, difficult to understand. Animals were different. They had personalities, but they weren’t overflowing with overly zany traits. Mostly, they acted on their instincts, and their instincts were all the same, therefore, Edith knew what to expect.

 

Humans weren’t the same.

 

Edith could categorise humans into about three columns. Fight, flight, and freeze. She, herself, was probably a freezer, not that she ever got herself into those situations in the first place.

 

Animals, though, all did the same thing; all butterflies would choose flight; all bees would choose fight. That was her basic understanding of animals.

 

That was why working as a quokka conservationist on Rottnest Island had been a dream come true for Edith. After studying in England for years, in the heart of the bustle, Rottnest was like living in the middle of nowhere. However, she supposed, it basically was.

 

There were no public houses on Rottnest. The only people that lived there were herself, the nurses, and those who ran businesses, which meant about twenty people in total. Of course, there were the few tourists and year 7 camps who decided to rent rooms, but Edith had gotten good at avoiding them.

 

The only person it seemed she couldn’t avoid was Ricarda, a nurse on the island.

 

Maybe it was because Edith was always injuring herself, or maybe it was because she secretly wanted to spend time with Ricarda, but Edith somehow always ended up at the nursing station.

 

-

 

The ambulance came to pick Edith up. She had fallen off her bicycle on the round bend before The Basin, one that she rode daily.

 

She didn’t even remember it, really. It was as if one moment she was riding normally and the next she was on the ground, underneath her undamaged bike with a misshapen wrist. After one look at her out-of-place arm, she instantly dry heaved on the side of the road, and then used the walkie-talkie clipped to her belt to alert the nurse's station she needed help.

 

A man whom Edith knew as Bentley pulled up in the mini ambo-van, sticking his head out the window to see Edith on the ground. She had pulled herself out from underneath her bike and was sitting beside it on the side of the narrow road, cradling her broken arm to her chest like a baby bird with a broken wing.

 

“Need help up?” Bentley asked, opening the door before Edith could even answer.

 

“That’d be great, thanks.” Edith smiled. She needed to stand but she also wasn’t prepared to release her arm from her own cradle.

 

Bentley walked over and placed his large hands on Edith’s waist, hoisting her up with ease. His red hair shone under the light of the sun and his freckles reminded him of Ricarda’s own splatterings across her cheeks. Edith looked down to the ground as Bentley lead her to his mini ambo-van. Then, as she took a seat, he turned around to grab her bike, which he placed in the back.

 

The drive to the nurse’s station was short. Edith was grateful, as she wasn’t feeling any pain at all but rather nausea and a dull, numb throb in the centre of her wrist. She wasn’t exactly keen on vomiting in the ambulance, so she tried to keep her head down and her mouth closed. Bentley eagerly filled the silence with tidbits of his day that Edith hummed at in response.

 

When they arrived, Bentley led her in. Edith covered her bent left arm with her uninjured right up, smiling when she saw Ricarda at her desk.

 

“Eds!” Ricarda grinned wildly, her insane mane of black, unruly hair pulled into the messiest of low-set buns, with hundreds of flyaway strands dancing in the air. Edith felt breathless and full of life all at once, watching Ricarda’s bright grin.

 

“Don’t call me Eds.” She rolled her eyes, “It’s _Edith_.”

 

“Sorry, Edi.” Ricarda laughed, “Won’t happen again!”

 

“ _Ed-ith!_ ” Edith groaned, but they both knew she didn’t care at all.

 

Edith wondered, did Ricarda get as awestruck as she did whenever they saw each other? Did Ricarda wonder what she was feeling, fluttering in her gut?

 

Something in the air made it feel reciprocated, Edith didn’t know what it was, just that it _was_. Edith would never act on it, she knew. The lingering touches and stares, the all-too genuinely dramatic farewells, the colour in their cheeks. It wasn’t normal. And Edith was expected to go back to England at the end of the month, anyway.

 

Bentley had left the room and Edith had only just noticed.

 

“So, what happened? Needed a dose of vitamin R?” Ricarda teased, like she always did.

 

Edith walked over and took a seat, cradling her injured wrist. “Of course, but I fell off my bike.”

 

Then, Ricarda went into nurse mode. She swabbed disinfectant on Edith’s knees, bandaged her scrapes, casted her wrist, crafted her a sling with bandages, all with the gentlest of touches. Edith felt breathless, Ricarda in front of her, her dark eyes watching her.

 

“So…” Ricarda trailed off, “I think you’re all patched up.”

 

Ricarda’s accent was thick, having been raised by sheep farmers in the wheatbelt region of Western Australia. Though, Edith supposed growing up in High Wycombe in England meant her accent was thick, too, just in a more posh way. Ricarda had described herself as a part-time bogan what felt a million times, and she had called Edith different royal titles just as many.

 

Her hand was on Edith’s knee, resting on top a fresh bandage placed to cover up a deep scrape. Edith put her hand atop Ricarda’s and smiled; “Thank you.”

 

The softness in Ricarda’s eyes was enough to make Edith’s heart flutter to a stop in her chest. The skin on the pads of her fingers felt like it was tingling, and in that moment she knew that Ricarda felt the same as she did.

 

And it terrified her.

 

Within the next month, Edith saw Ricarda many times. They went to the beach and swam in the clear waters, they snorkeled at an old shipwreck with one of Ricarda’s hometown friends, they saw each other across empty rooms, and when the month was up, Edith took the ferry to Perth and never crossed paths with Ricarda ever again.

 

She thought about her often, though, when she moved back to England. She began working as a veterinarian in London and met a man named Louis. She loved him, she did, but sometimes her mind drifted back to Ricarda on Rottnest Island, and she wondered what could have been, if either of them had taken a chance.

 

And when Edith was diagnosed with terminal cancer in 1972, she made sure one funeral notice was sent to a Nurse Ricarda at Rottnest Island. On her deathbed, she prayed that Ricarda would come.

  
  


**_Derry, USA; 1992_ **

 

The sun begins setting, so the two young boys opt to drag themselves out and air dry on the bank. They bicker between themselves for a while, their signature style, before Richie turns to Eddie, shyly.

 

Eddie, on the rock, looks like a picture straight out of one of Richie’s dreams.

 

Where swimming isn’t Eddie’s talent, expressing himself isn’t Richie’s, but the words are flying around his head like a tornado that needs to be released.

 

“Hey, you know what you said before?” Richie asks, and now it’s his turn to be genuine.

 

“I’ve said hundreds of things. Be more specific.” Eddie replies, grinning, teasing. He knows if he doesn’t make light of the situation, Richie will have a harder time saying whatever it is he’s about to say.

 

“About… how you feel like you’ve known me forever.” Richie says, and when Eddie doesn’t respond he continues, “Or, whatever.”

 

“Yeah?” Eddie replies, quietly. Richie supposes it’s a bit weird for the both of them, right now, but he sort of likes it.

 

“What did you mean?” He asks, and when he looks over at Eddie he’s got a dusting of pink over his cheeks and a nervous smile on his lips.

 

“Like… I feel like I’ve known you forever, and not just my whole life. _Forever_ forever.” He says.

 

Richie nods, because he gets it. He loves so many people, all the losers, but something about Eddie… Richie just understands. Sometimes, it’s, like, on universal level, or something. He doesn’t really know what it means.

 

“Yeah. Eds. Me too.” He says, and he can’t look at Eddie, because right now he feels the most exposed he has in such a long time. He doesn’t have his voices to hide behind, or his impressions, or his jokes. It’s just him, Eddie, the water, and the truth.

 

But the spell breaks, because Eddie lets out a soft little laugh; “Don’t call me Eds.”  


**Author's Note:**

> remember to feed my ego in the comments


End file.
